


Aftermath

by LadyNimrodel



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Prompt Fill, this is pretty shameless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 05:10:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4653600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyNimrodel/pseuds/LadyNimrodel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt Fill for the prompt "Imagine your OTP lying next to each other in bed, staring at the ceiling, embarrassed and slightly alarmed by the wild, intense, filthy sex they just had." </p>
<p>I imagined it. And then I wrote it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> haaaa that was fun :) I need to write more smut for these two

The room is startlingly quiet in the aftermath. 

The only sounds are two sets of harsh breathing and the rushing thud of his pulse in his ears. 

Harry stares at the ceiling, eyes wide, and tries to catch his breath. The last time he was this out of breath from a good, hard shag was…well, never actually. Of course, it had always been just another physical activity, though with a pleasant pay-off at the end. But this…

This wasn’t a good shag. This was a fucking hurricane that picked him up and spat him back out again. This was violence and stars colliding and suns being born. This was fire under his skin and a vortex in his veins and thunder in his ears, drowning out the rest of the world. The pleasure burned through him, through both of them, like lightning. Like…he can’t think of what else. Sex seems to have burned away all higher brain functions.

Which never happened before. He’s been trained, for fuck’s sake, to hold onto himself during sex. Honeypot missions, though rare, require it. And while this was certainly not sex with a mark, he has never lost the ability to breathe before, much less think straight.

He is alarmed. And embarrassed. And fucking terrified. 

Because Harry never knew sex could be that…consuming. 

That good. 

Fucking hell, was it good. He wants it a million more times, wants it again right now, but he doesn’t think he can get hard again for a week. Because damn. 

With slow movements, he glances at the young man stretched out next to him on the bed and then wishes he hadn’t. Eggsy stares back at him, eyes just as wide as Harry’s, though the rest of his face is hidden by the pillow he’s pressed himself into. His body is spread out over the sheets in an inelegant sprawl, skin still flushed from orgasm, shining with sweat and littered with marks from Harry’s fingers and teeth. 

Harry feels another swoop of embarrassment in the pit of his stomach. He practically mauled the boy.

Eggsy’s lovely green-blue eyes blink a few times, focusing on him blearily through the glaze of hazy pleasure and they stare at each other in a daze. Eggsy on his stomach, Harry on his back, hands almost touching on the sheets between them. The connection between them is electric enough that they don’t need skin contact to feel it. It lights up the air between them and he thinks, maybe, he could get hard again after all. Looking at Eggsy, the muscles on his shoulders and back, the shape of his lovely arse that Harry was, only a few moments ago, buried hilt deep in, there is a jolt of heat in his belly. But then he looks back into Eggsy’s face and swallows thickly. He knows the moment Eggsy feels the amazement, sees the awe flicker across the parts of his handsome face that Harry can see. 

“Fuck,” Eggsy croaks, looking stunned. Harry looks back at the ceiling because he’s remembering and it’s overwhelming. 

“Yes,” he agrees, his own voice shockingly deep and rough. There is another long silence, during which their breathing finally evens out. But the heat doesn’t dissipate from under his skin and the astonishment doesn’t fade. 

“Holy shit.” Eggsy sounds like he’s about to have an existential crisis. Harry sympathizes. 

“I know.” Cool air tickles his skin and he thinks about dragging himself out of bed to clean up. But just the thought of moving seems impossible. As insurmountable as walking to the moon.

“It’s never been that…like that for me,” there is a question in Eggsy’s voice, a hopeful lilt that tugs at Harry’s heart. With deliberate motions, he moves his arm enough so he can curl his fingers through Eggsy’s, fit his own between the waiting spaces in between. There is a soft, answering hum, rather like the one Eggsy made when Harry licked at his shoulders earlier in the night, and suddenly he isn’t afraid of what happened between them, as crushing as it had been.

“Nor for me,” Harry answers truthfully. He turns his head again, just in time to catch the grin Eggsy hides in the pillow. His fingers squeeze Harry’s tightly, palm warm and grip strong. 

“It was…” 

“Intense,” Harry supplies when Eggsy breaks off, at a loss. There is an answering snort. 

“Fuck yeah, bruv. I think I fried some brain cells or somefing’,” Harry chuckles and steels himself to get up, to get a warm wet rag so he can tenderly clean the sweat and come from Eggsy’s skin. The boy watches him, though he makes no effort to move. A smile curls on his lips, crooked and happy and Harry thinks maybe he loves that smile. 

Just like he loves his accent and the color of his eyes, sometimes blue, sometimes green, sometimes both. Loves the gun callouses on Eggsy’s hands and the scar on his thigh, the way he laughs at completely inappropriate times and how protective he is over his mother, sister, Roxy, even Harry himself. As he runs the damp cloth over soft skin and the hard curve of muscle, he knows he has lost himself irrevocably to this beautiful creature. Wild and beautiful and unbreakable. 

When he slides back onto the bed, he drags Eggsy close enough to curl an arm around his waist, a leg about his thighs, and presses his nose into his hair. A low flame of contentment flickering in his chest. 

“Think we can do that again?” Eggsy murmurs sleepily into the pillow he is still burrowed in. Harry, energy buzzing along his skin and pinging in his blood, hums agreeably into sweat damp hair. 

“Of course, Eggsy,” Harry answers, pressing a kiss to the edge of a closed eye. Eggsy sighs.

“Fuck yes,” he whispers and promptly falls asleep. 

They do it again, of course. A few hours later when Eggsy wakes up. In the morning, lazy and brilliant. And every day they can afterwards. Mind blowing sex like that merits a repeat. As many repeats as possible, actually. And though every time isn’t as soul-searing as the first time, there are still many, many instances when they end up staring at each other, unable to quite believe how good it is between them. 

Harry realizes, some time later, that it isn’t just having sex with Eggsy that makes it so good. 

It’s because he loves Eggsy. And Eggsy loves him back. 

And so what if it took fifty-one years to find the person that heats his blood to a boil and makes Harry want to spend an eternity on his knees. 

It was well worth the wait.


End file.
